


The Smell of Smoke

by atlas_white



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Smoking, UST, maxwil - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-12 14:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19133698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlas_white/pseuds/atlas_white
Summary: Wilson hadn't realized how much he associated the cigar with Maxwell until he was offered to try it for himself.In which there is pining, an indirect kiss, and, of course, cigar smoke.





	The Smell of Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> Drabble requested on my DS blog [@higgsburyscience](http://higgsburyscience.tumblr.com/).

The first time Wilson had ever set eyes on Maxwell, he had been smoking.

It had not been the most striking thing about the tall man as he’d stood over the scientist, watching him wake with molten gold eyes. After all, his striking eyes and, indeed, _mere presence_ aside, he’d been standing out in the deep, dark woods clad in a perfectly pressed pinstripe suit with a poppy corsage, and the hand which held the cigar had sported not fingers, but long, black talons. It was no understatement to say that he had been the strangest, most incredible thing Wilson had ever seen, and that he had been immediately struck by him, not solely because he had not recognized him as Maxwell, and hadn’t had a clue as to who he could  _be_.

Yet, the presence of the cigar had left its mark with Wilson, the bittersweet smell of smoke filling his nostrils and his head long after Maxwell had gone. It was the scent of Maxwell before Wilson knew what the scent of Maxwell was.

He had never been a smoker, had never had the knack for it. He had never cared much for the pipe the way Edgar and his highbrow companions always had. One of his shortcomings as a Higgsbury, Wilson thought wryly. It had always been such a nuisance before he'd met Maxwell and first known the smell of cigar smoke as the sign that he was nearby.

It wasn't a conscious thought, for some time; if he smelled the smoke before he caught sight of Maxwell, he would look for him at once, and often he would find the King of Shadows standing just behind him, a smile on his face, and the cigar glowing like a private sun in his impressive ebony claws.

Unknowingly, it became something that Wilson would look for, and which he felt a thrill only to catch a whiff of.

 

"Would you like a drag?" Maxwell asked of him once, and Wilson pressed his lips together tightly in an effort not to frown.

"No, thank you," Wilson answered, waving a hand in polite dismissal. "I never was much of a smoker."

"Oh? That's a shame." Maxwell chuckled, bringing the cigar to his mouth. The way he pulled from it made it look like an art form; the way it sat settled so enviably between the magician's full lips made Wilson's throat tighten and his mouth run dry. He wanted what that cigar had, the wretched thing, that scrap of plant fiber given such unfair extravagance.

He lifted his chin luxuriously and blew smoke into the evening air, a dragon in pinstriped suit, and the tightening in Wilson's throat dropped into his stomach like a stone. Had he ever watched him this way? He couldn't have noticed before, yet it seemed nothing like this should have ever been able to escape his notice. He was transfixed. There was no other way to describe it.

"You really ought to try it sometime," Maxwell said once he'd finished, turning those captivating eyes to Wilson. "Although unfortunately there really is no tobacco here but this. I wish I could have afforded it to you."

Wilson could not allow himself to dwell on the scope of " _you_ ," whether it dictated only himself, or something broader. He instead preoccupied himself with the cigar, whose smell was overwhelming now, the tang that meant _Maxwell_.

He stared at the thing, which never seemed to diminish, and which had only moments ago touched Maxwell's lips. Something twisted in Wilson, wrung him raw from the inside out. He reached towards it.

"I suppose, if you _insist_ ," he said sourly, as if the cigar had not suddenly begun to sing a siren's call to him.

Maxwell laughed, sharp and loud in the too-quiet forest. "I've never known you to change your mind about something so easily. What's gotten into you, Higgsbury?"

Wilson averted his eyes, unable to face what had transpired in his head, in his heart. There was too much in him that could not be put properly into words, much less into a look. Life had not been wholly kind to him; he would crumble at the least sign of disgust.

"A good scientist must try everything once," he answered, forcing himself to look up again. "Isn't that right?"

Maxwell smiled at him, an unmistakable fondness in the expression, and he gave a chuckle which was much gentler than the laugh that had preceded it. "I suppose you are right! Very well then, in the name of science. Here. Enjoy." This said, he offered the cigar to Wilson.

Wilson accepted it hesitantly. He eyed it for a moment, reminding himself that this was what he had wanted. He steeled himself and followed Maxwell's example.

It had been a long time since he had last tried smoking, and he found it less awful than his prior experiences. It was not a welcome sensation, the taste, the smoke, the way it felt as if it were overwhelming his senses and yet, when he, coughing, exhaled, he found himself satisfied.

Harsh though it may have been, it brought with it the rush not only of nicotine but of having gotten _exactly_ what he wanted. It was, of course, not the cigar, but that contact of something which had made contact too with Maxwell's lips, that forbidden pleasure from a man who promised so many forbidden things and yet had delivered every one. Wilson wondered how much more he might share, what other fruits from his garden he might have to offer him.

"Did you like it?" Maxwell asked, mirth in his voice at the hoarse coughing the cigar had wrought from Wilson. "Did you gain something _scientific_ from the experience?"

Wilson continued to cough a little longer, _damn_ that thing, it was so strong, so distasteful! And yet he was pleased, as he returned it to Maxwell, nodding, coughing still.

"Yes, it was very... _informative_ ," he croaked, his voice unbecomingly thin. And he grinned, and realized for the very first time what significance the scent of the cigar held, undeniably, and how he would cherish the way that it tainted him and his clothes, and how he longed to taste it on Maxwell's own tongue.


End file.
